The View Out the Window
by moistlemon
Summary: An expansion on the ending of Mountains'/Annapurna's mobile game, "Florence." The cover art is from the same game.


If there was one thing that Florence can say had not changed in her life over the past two years, it's how she spent what was left of her afternoon after work. It was an enduring custom of Florence's, to contemplate this view that she knew like the back of her own hand, a view she had practically seen as many times; the view right outside her bedroom window. This constant in her life was one she was glad for; it was serenity incomparable, a tranquilizer for the antsiest of minds, to stare off into the distance like this. Though now, thankfully, she was unwinding from the anxious high of making a deal or meeting a new face, rather than the tedious ennui of punching numbers into a calculator or typing them into a spreadsheet. Florence Yeoh's life was good. And this is what bounced around in her mind as she laid her chin in her hand, and her elbow on the window sill, letting her mind shut down for a minute.

The wind breezed by, with it leaves rustling, and a few, letting go of their arboreal roots, flying along with the gentle gusts. Some chatter from the streets below was loud enough to make their way through the window: a not-so-eloquent argument between two men, the elated squeals of three or four children playing tag, the loud laughter of a group after one of their members told a supposedly hilarious joke. Cars drove by, engines whirring, there would be a light beep or two; one motorcyclist sped by, engine roaring, there was a beep or five. Absently, Florence took in these sounds, her mind registering them as mindless white noise, as she slipped into a light nap.

But then, there was a sound that stood out to her. Her brow furrowed and an eye popped open, hoping to find the source. It was grating, like a nail against a chalkboard or the creaking of a dilapidated door. It went on and off for several minutes until it stopped entirely. And how glad she was for it; the sound was nothing less than ear-piercing to the woman, but listless, careless bliss once again found its way into the woman's head. So she lounged there, at her window, enjoying the music as the notes danced through the air, into her abode. Beautiful, pleasing... nostalgic? Comprehension dawned on Florence as she moved her hand away from her chin, instead opting to use it as support as she leaned her entire upper body out of the window to find the source of that damned beautiful noise. She frantically scanned over the small crowds below until finally, the object of her search revealed himself.

She had found the cellist, but it wasn't Krish. Instead, it was a dark-skinned, baggily-dressed, older gentleman. He looked like he was in nirvana as he repeatedly brought his bow back and forth against his instrument's strings, and Florence was almost as excited to hear the sounds that the action produced. Still a good two or three feet out of her window, the awed woman watched as the man made his way through the evocative work until finally, he played those notes that Florence hated: the ones that indicated that the composition was about to come to a close. By the time the music did come to a stop, the man had noticed the younger woman that was watching him so passionately and shot her a kind smile. Florence wholeheartedly returned it, disappeared from his sight, and once again appeared, except this time on the same level as him. She kept that wide smile on her face as she approached the man,

"Where did you learn that?"

The man curiously tilted his head, but after a moment of thought he responded in a warm baritone,

"Some fella was playing it a street down from my house, few blocks from here, asked him the same question you just asked me, miss," he gave a small smile, "told me he wrote the thing himself! Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure the young man was famous, or something."

"Famous?"

"Well, as much as an orchestral cellist can be these days. Ever hear of a Krish Vyas?"

She furrowed her brows, feigning contemplation until she responded,

"I'm pretty sure I actually have."

The man accompanied his smile, now turned wide grin, with a raised eyebrow,

"Oh? You keep up with that scene, miss?"

And she returned the smile with sheer exuberance,

"No, not really."

And with a sincere farewell, Florence Yeoh entered her apartment and sat down in front of her window, as she has for the past half decade of her life. This was a day almost identical to any other, yet as her eyes once again passed over the extent of the city before her, she found that there was something different, something new to appreciate in the view out the window.


End file.
